


Of Medics and Nomads

by SparkBeat



Series: Desert Wings [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alien genitalia, Drift that's a medical procedure not the start to a porn vid!, Fluff, Maybe - Freeform, Mildly Dubious Consent, Sticky, read the author's note
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-11 11:38:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4434116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SparkBeat/pseuds/SparkBeat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is an expansion of the memory Ratchet has in Desert Wings about how he and Drift actually wound up bonding. It could possibly be considered dubcon, since he's doing it for moral reasons, not because he actually cares about Drift at this point.</p><p>By the time Desert Wings occurs, they're like (literally) an old married couple, arguing one minute, fragging on the stolen med berth the next, then back to arguing when Ratchet sees the mess they made on his slagging med berth! </p><p>In this AU I'm using <a href="http://the-sparkbeat.tumblr.com/post/119625094368/adhesivesandscrap-heres-my-little-addition-to-the"> this spike design</a> so it's sticky, but it's not sticky? </p><p>I don't know, I just wanted some Dratchet, and this didn't help, because now I just want to write about round two! </p><p>Also, I'm crap at titles, if someone comes up with something better than 'How the tribe got their medic!' please let me know! XD</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an expansion of the memory Ratchet has in Desert Wings about how he and Drift actually wound up bonding. It could possibly be considered dubcon, since he's doing it for moral reasons, not because he actually cares about Drift at this point.
> 
> By the time Desert Wings occurs, they're like (literally) an old married couple, arguing one minute, fragging on the stolen med berth the next, then back to arguing when Ratchet sees the mess they made on his slagging med berth! 
> 
> In this AU I'm using [ this spike design](http://the-sparkbeat.tumblr.com/post/119625094368/adhesivesandscrap-heres-my-little-addition-to-the) so it's sticky, but it's not sticky? 
> 
> I don't know, I just wanted some Dratchet, and this didn't help, because now I just want to write about round two! 
> 
> Also, I'm crap at titles, if someone comes up with something better than 'How the tribe got their medic!' please let me know! XD

“I told you, leave me alone!” Ratchet snapped, slapping away the barbarian’s wandering servos. They’d been at this game for _weeks_! The mech was determined to annoy the pit out of him it seemed, and it had only gotten worse since he’d been brought back to the camp.

 

He’d managed to escaped a few days ago, and hadn’t made it far at all before the heat and lack of anything resembling survival skills brought him to a screeching halt in the middle of nowhere.

 

Drift had tracked him down, carrying him back over his shoulders just as he had when he’d first captured him all those weeks ago. Ratchet was sure he’d made quite the sight, snarling and cursing and throwing a screaming, kicking fit that the sparklings envied as they returned to camp.

 

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to go back. By the time Drift had caught up with him, he’d been gone for two days. No shade or shelter had been boiling and freezing him in turns. Hunting, as it turned out, was far trickier than the tribe had made it seem. He’d had no better luck finding fuel than he’d had with shelter.

 

He was more than ready to go back if it meant getting out of the pit blasted sun and filling his empty, cramping tanks. What he didn’t appreciate was being hauled around like an invalid, and he was going to make sure the nomad knew.

 

They may speak different languages, but an elbow to the finial was universal.

 

Since then, Drift had kept an even closer optic on him, leading him around on a leash of all things, like a pet, if he needed to leave the tent, instead of leaving him tied to the central post like before. The post was buried deep, but Ratchet was a reinforced medic frame. He knew how to throw his weight around, and he’d left the tent in shambles when he’d made his ill-attempted escape.

 

Tonight, like every night since his return, the slimmer mech pulled him into his lap despite his greater weight, back to chest, and offered him dinner. He raised his bound servos and snatched the oozing chunk from the other mech’s fingers, popping it into his mouth and chewing quickly. The action was still so _weird,_ the meat so much tougher than the gelled candies that had been the only solid food he’d ever had before. He still felt sick if he thought about it too much.

 

Drift’s servos had wandered to his hips, anchoring him in the other’s lap as he ate. Even though his servos remained chaste in their contact, Ratchet flushed. That had been when he slapped his servos away, struggling to climb off of him and only succeeding in falling flat on his face, aft in the air, legs still spread over the other mech’s ample thighs.

 

A servo tentatively cupped his aft, and Drift made a confused little noise in the back of his intake as he stroked over the plating presented to him.

 

“NO! Get – get off me!” Ratchet wriggled away, kicking at Drift when he followed him on his servos and knees with a positively predatory look on his face. He sat back on his haunches with a hurt look and a confused tilt of his helm.

 

“Don’t you understand anything I say?!” Ratchet snapped, flipping himself over and glaring at him.

 

The worst part of this whole fiasco was that if he wasn’t a prisoner? If they hadn’t met like this? He’d have gotten the mech in his berth at some point, no question about it. He’d easily admit he had a weakness for speedster frames, and for the sort of mouthwatering waist to hip ratio Drift was gifted with. Pharma had loved to tease him about how all he ever had to do to make a point was to parade a mech with a tiny waist and nicely rounded hips in front of him, and he was putty. Extremely heated putty.

 

That explained the flush on his face and the low hum of his fans. Simple mechanical attraction, that’s all.

 

Drift shook his helm, resting his palms on his thighs and remaining where he crouched, even as his frame buzzed with charge.

 

“No? You understand no, except when I say it, then?”

 

“City talk…confused? Not good learning? You say ‘no’…but body say yes? Not…not good, words.”

 

“Obviously. My body doesn’t speak for me. Y’know what it’s called when a mech forces someone, then tries to say he wanted it just cause his body reacted to external stimulus? Want to learn a new word?” He could tell half of what he said went over the other mech’s helm, but he nodded, and Ratchet plowed ahead. “It’s called _rape_ , Drift.”

 

He didn’t get to finish his tirade. He hadn’t even really finished saying the mech’s _name_ before the warrior was scrambling back from him, keening, horror and protest warring on his faceplates.

 

“You know that word already?” He was surprised, to say the least.

 

“Would … would **_never_** _rape_ you! Want mate, not…not sad, broke mech.” Drift growled, obviously at a loss for words.

 

“A victim, you mean?” He nodded, a look of earnest apology spreading over his face.

 

“Not victim! Mate. Important. Partner…care for mate, never hurt him!”

 

“You already have, you idiot…I just want to go home.” He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

 

“You mate…this home?”

 

“Just…just forget it, Drift.” He sighed again, and didn’t even complain about the sand that expelled from his vents as a result. This argument was just exhausting him, there was no point in continuing. He’d gotten the other mech to back off, and that was enough for the night.

 

He rolled over, pulling a fur up over his shoulder and offlining his optics. If Drift understood rape, and Ratchet had every reason to believe he did after the vehement protest he’d just witnessed, maybe he understood where he stood on the subject now. That meant there was hope. Just, not tonight.

 

For the first time since they’d met, he went to sleep alone, without the nagging weight and warmth of the other’s frame pressed up against his. He almost missed the company.

 

 

~~~~~

 

Shouting woke him the next morning. He rolled over, resetting his optics blearily. Drift was gone, the tent empty save for himself. He wasn’t even tied to anything, the cable binding his wrists together the only point of restraint.

 

The shouting outside had quieted considerably as he pushed himself to his pedes. Stumbling to the tent entrance, still booting badly needed processes, he peeked out.

 

Drift’s tent was in the inner ring, as per usual, which meant he didn’t have to look very far for the missing mech, or the cause of the excitement. The red and white mech was helping carry a massive nomad to an open sided shelter on the other side of the inner ring. He was silent, grim faced, while they laid him out.

 

Ratchet moved closer, ignoring the looks he was getting from the mechs gathering around the tent. Drift saw him, and for the very first time, he didn’t have a smile for him. Ratchet pushed between two heavily inked mechs and grabbed hold of Drift’s arm.

 

“What happened?”

 

“Stupid…fell. Helm open.” Drift mumbled, crossing his arms and keeping distance between the two of them.

 

“A helm wound? Why in the pit didn’t you take him inside then?!” What were they thinking? A single grain of sand getting in between connections was enough to cause serious processor damage, and the risk of an arc out was unacceptably high. His servos clenched into fists, medical protocols screaming to life so fast it made his processor ache.

 

Drift just shrugged again. “Healer knows best.”

 

“Healer?” Ratchet fell quiet, along with everyone else, when an old weather worn mech knelt at the unconscious mech’s helm and started…chanting? Was the idiot really _praying_?! He put his servos on the broad helm, framing the crack that Ratchet could just see the edge of from where he stood, and started swaying as he spoke.

 

“Oh _slag no_!” Ratchet growled, stomping up to the old mech, “You’re going to kill him quicker than the desert would, you idiot!”

 

Servos, he didn’t know whose, grabbed him and shoved him back at Drift. The speedster caught him, making sure he was stable on his pedes before stepping away.

 

“Drift! Tell them to listen to me! I’m a _medic_ for pit’s sake! That mech’s going to die if we don’t do something!”

 

“Not part of tribe. No voice, outsider.” The mech who pushed him snarled.

 

“ _Seriously?_ He’s going to _die!”_

 

“Primus gives, and Primus takes away.” Someone else said solemnly, and of _course_ the most coherent NeoCybex he’d heard from anyone and it just _had_ to be religious idiocy.

 

They’d formed a wall around the ‘healer’ by that point, blocking him out. His coding protested, knowing someone needed his help. All of these people needed his help. How many of them would offline well before their time because of ‘Primus’ will’?.

 

What did it matter, really, if he set up shop in this tribe, or in the slums back home? He could at least teach these idiots the basics, and they wouldn’t burn it out of their processor with boosters and Syk ten klicks later.

 

Sighing, acting before he could change his mind, he grabbed hold of Drift’s arm and pulled him back to his…their…tent.

 

“What?” Drift tried to pull away, confusion evident in his voice, but Ratchet just tightened his grip and kept going.

 

“C’mon. Get in here.” He said, pushing into the tent and dropping to his knees on the furs. If they’d had more time, if he’d not been working against a very lethal clock, he’d probably have started off right there swallowing the other mech’s spike and teasing him until they both were ramped up and ready to frag. As it was, he didn’t protest when Drift followed him down, still confused.

 

“Name’s Ratchet, Drift... You really sure you want a grumpy medic for a mate?” He tried for gentle, cupping the other mech’s face in his servos, but he just sounded gruff, and more than a little nervous.

 

Drift’s optics brightened, a grin blossoming on his face. His own servos rested cautiously on his waist, thumbs tracing sensitive seams.

 

“Don’t know ‘grumpy medic’. Want mate. Want _Ratchet_.” His name was said with a reverence that absolutely floored the medic, and he leaned in to press their lips together in an awkward kiss that Drift was all too happy to turn passionate.

 

When they parted, Drift’s fans were already humming, and Ratchet’s weren’t far behind. The nomad grinned at him, leaning in to kiss along his jaw, down to his neck. That mouth latching onto his neck cables was enough to get a moan out of him, and he bit his lip to keep quiet.

 

He had already opened his panel when Drift tried to lay him down in the nest, still suckling on the cable between his lips. He put a servo over the white chest plate, pushing back.

 

“Sorry. I’ve gotta make this quick, that mech’s not got a lot of time.” Drift frowned, clearly trying to work out his meaning. “I’ll make it up to you afterwards, if that’s what you want. Right now, just frag me, fast and hard.”

 

Drift still didn’t look convinced, servos absentmindedly play with seams in his hip joints while he studied the city-mech. He sighed, climbing up into his lap and drawing the tip of a flushed finial into his mouth. The gasp and aborted twitch of hips under him had him smiling around his mouthful.

 

“Wait… Ra- _ah_ -atchet?” He leaned back, pulling off the finial with a wet pop. “Not…not rape, yea?”

 

“No Drift, not rape.” Even so, the nerves and doubt kept his spike soft in it’s housing, not nearly enough charge in his systems to get it up yet. Drift noticed, fingers teasing at the sensitive head and tracing around the inside rim of the housing.

 

While he teased at Ratchet’s spike, he slid his own pressurized spike through the little bit of lubricants that had trickled out of his valve. The way the head popped into the rim of his valve with every thrust, pulling at the platelets in just enough stretch to start building charge was enough to convince his spike to rise into the waiting servo.

 

“Oh _slag_ …” He groaned, hips starting to rock a counterpoint to the rhythm that had been set. He’d feared Drift wouldn’t understand the urgency, but it seemed that worry was unfounded.

 

The servo around his spike tightened, and his hips stuttered, rhythm lost at the frission of pleasure that shot up his spinal strut.

 

“Ah! Oh…C’mon Drift… spike me already! Let’s see what you’ve got.” He shifted, the head of Drift’s spike catching on the rim of his valve again. This time, he didn’t give him the chance to pull away, moaning as his valve stretched around the solid girth. Calipers that had gone unused for longer than he cared to think about clenched down, gripping Drift tight.

 

He vented heavily, pressing his forehead to Drift’s shoulder. The other mech’s servo flexed rhythmically around his spike, pulling his mind away from the slight burn at the rim of his valve as he pressed his hips down to take more of the heated spike in. Drift’s free servo gripped Ratchet’s hip, stopping him from going any further.

 

“Ratchet hurting.” The servo on his spike twisted around the flared head.

 

“ _Nngh…_ I’m fine, Drift. It’s just been a while.” He tried to move, and felt the spike inside him shrink as Drift flattened his plating down as tight as he could. Suddenly, there was just enough extra room for Ratchet to slide down easily. He moaned when his aft connected with Drift’s pelvic plating with a clang.

 

“Ratchet not hurt?” His concern was as endearing as it was annoying, and far more considerate than most of his past partners ever were. He found himself thinking that maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe, just maybe, they could make this work. He silenced that hopeful little voice, rocking down against Drift and letting out a shameless little whine as his anterior node made contact with heated plating.

 

“Ra- _ha-_ Ratch-“

 

“I’m fine, Drift. Pit’s sake, I’m not made of glass!” He punctuated the comment with a snap of his hips, drawing up off Drift’s spike and slamming his hips back down with a resounding sound of metal on metal. The burning ache of stretch was already fading as he continued to rut against the other mech. His spike twitched in Drift’s servo, and the grip tightened, thumb pressing down on the glowing nodule at the tip. His plating flared in the welcomed pressure, mesh swelling out of the expanding sections, charge crackling over the surface.

 

The servo on his hip shifted to his cheek, guiding him away from Drift’s shoulder so they were optic to optic.

 

“Ratchet help Breakdown?” He was surprisingly even toned for all that his spike was buried in Ratchet’s quivering valve. He assumed that Breakdown was the idiot with the cracked helm, but his pride was warring with his coding at that point, determined to make Drift loose that coherency.

 

“Yea- _ah!_ Yea, I’m gonna try.” He said, pressing their plating together and rolling his hips in tight little circles that stimulated his own anterior node as much as anything.

 

Drift grinned wolfishly, leaning in for a kiss that stalled Ratchet’s vents with its intensity. The nomad nipped at his bottom lip as he pulled away, tugging at the soft metal with his dentae and then smoothing over the little dents with his glossa.

 

“Have more fun later, then?”

 

“That’s the plan. We’ll have our honeymoon after I kick your ‘healer’s’ aft and put your friend back together.” He didn’t need to see the confusion in Drift’s optics to know most of that had gone right over his helm, but he apparently understood just enough.

 

His arms were pulled up to loop the cable over Drift’s helm and let him wrap his arms around Drift’s neck. He was grateful in the next moment for the stability, when the first sharp thrust of the speedster’s hips lifted him nearly off his knees. The servo around his spike was squeezing and releasing in a rhythm that mimicked a valves calipers, teasing the charge in his frame higher and higher.

 

Ratchet was very quickly reduced to a whimpering, gasping mess, slumping forward to mouth at Drift’s neck cables while the nomad chased down both of their overloads.

 

He could tell Drift was close when the spike inside of him started to swell, plating expanding and stretching his valve walls taught around the newly textured spike. He went slack as more and more nodes were teased, charge snapping against sensors normally hidden in the pleats of his valve lining. His optics whited out as the pleasure started to crest, the coil of charge in the pit of his tank winding tight.

 

He would deny it till the day he offlined, but he let out a whining little sob when Drift let go of his spike. The nomad hushed him, mouthing at the edge of his chevron. Servos grasped his hips tight, guiding the pace he’d lost as he’d draped himself over the other mech. He was pulled up tight against him, glass scraping against chest plates and spike trapped between two rapidly overheating frames.

 

He let himself be lifted and lowered on that deliciously charged spike, just enough processor space left to admire the strength hidden in that lithe frame as he was bounced along in the speedster’s lap.

 

He went over first with a gasp, spike releasing its charge in the confines of the small space between their abdomens. His valve clamped down tight, lubricant trickling out around Drift’s spike to slick his thighs and the nomad’s lap. The other mech groaned, servos clenching tight enough to dent as his thrusts became jerky and erratic.

 

With a should, he pulled Ratchet down hard, grinding up against him, squashing his anterior node and tripping a second, smaller overload as his charge released, flooding his sensors and nearly knocking him offline.

 

Drift lowered him to the furs, both their vents wide open and racing as they struggled to cool themselves down. It took him a ridiculously long time to reboot from the near shut down. When he did, Drift was leaning over him, presumably to steal a kiss.

 

He pushed him away with a hand on his faceplate, ignoring the giddy laughter as the other mech rolled onto his side. He sawed through his restraints on the edge of one of the knives the other mech had produced, and rose to his pedes. Closing his panel without so much as a cursory clean up, he raced out of the tent, pulling his medical kit out of subspace as he went.

 

He honestly didn’t remember much about the actual procedure, or what he said to get the ‘healer’ (complete with air quotes) to get out of his way. Something extremely foul mouthed, if he had to take a guess.

 

The mech was miraculously still alive, despite the poor handling and sub-par conditions he had to work in. Honestly, once the mech had come around, it was like dealing with a sparkling to clean out the wound. He flinched and hissed and shouted at every turn.

 

When he was finally done, having threatened to weld the idiot’s mouth shut if he didn’t behave, he cleaned off the patch of unpainted silver metal covering the crack, and his audial receptors finally offlined the filter that had kept the background noise at bay while he worked. The healer was frowning at him, and he waved a servo in the wounded mech’s direction as the noise and chatter of the tribe filled his processor again.

 

“All yours. Go ahead and pray all you like, I’m done doing the actual _work_ , now.”

 

Laughter caught his attention, and he flushed when he looked up to see Drift standing in front of their tent, laughing uproariously with his panel still open and his lap glistening with Ratchet’s lubricants.

 

He didn’t _think_ the mech was laughing at him, not after how reverently he’d been treated since he’d arrived. Better safe than sorry, though. The spanner was out of subspace and in his servo in less than a klick, and crashing against the nomad’s helm in the next instant. Drift’s laughter hadn’t died as he crashed to the sand, but it was joined by half the tribe, laughing at Drift’s expense and clapping Ratchet on the back in congratulations. With the language barrier, he wasn’t sure if they were congratulating him on the newly formed partnership with Drift, or on his aim.

 

He was dragging Drift back into their tent for round two before he decided he was happy with either possibility.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to finish this bit of Dratchet smut with basically no plot in time for SlimReaper's birthday, HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!! :D

The tent flap had only just fallen shut behind them when Ratchet spun on his heel and captured the nomad’s still grinning mouth, pressing one servo against the smooth white chest plate and trailing the fingers of the other up one heated finial. If he had to guess, they’d be absolutely packed with sensors, and when Drift’s knees buckled and he moaned into the kiss, he’d guess he was right.

 

Servos gripped his hips, pulling him up flush against the other bot’s frame, and Drift took control of the kiss, turning it into something possessive and almost wild. He nipped and sucked at Ratchet’s lips and glossa, scraping pointed dentae over sensitized metal and smoothing away any stings with his glossa.

 

Ratchet wouldn’t be accused of not giving as good as he got, and got a good grip on Drift’s collar with the servo on his chest. He spun them around so the nomad’s back was to the messy nest of furs, and pushed. The other mech went to his knees with a salacious smirk, mouthing at Ratchet’s pelvic span and tracing the seam of his panel with the very tip of his glossa.

 

He gasped, servos fisting around those graceful sweeps of finial, flexing and twitching over the heating metal as that glossa probed at his heating panel. Drift’s servos inched up his thighs, plucking and tweaking at wires through the small gaps in his armor. His engine gave a sharp rev, reverberating through his frame and into Drift from where he had his mouth pressed to Ratchet’s plating, causing the lithe mech to moan, and then retaliate by licking a broad swathe up Ratchet’s panel. The thin metal slid aside, and Drift grinned up at him, showing a bit of fang.

 

His spike was already pressurizing, rising up alongside the nomad’s cheek vent. Now that Breakdown was out of danger, and his coding satisfied, the excess energy that had been pumped into his frame to assure he was able to do his job had nowhere to go. Medics all found different ways to disperse excess when it occurred. Some had hobbies, sports or activities that they would engage in off shift. Others, like Ratchet, preferred the more carnal pleasures to take care of their overcharge. He’d earned his nickname as the ‘Party Ambulance’ for good reason.

 

Drift, unaware of his mental side-track, was more than happy to open his mouth, giving Ratchet a little peek of his glossa before he swallowed down around the thick spike in front of his face. Ratchet’s processor came to a screeching halt, focus narrowing down to the feel of wet heat and suction around his spike as Drift shuttered his optics and moaned. The vibrations teased at his charge nodes, and his hips stuttered before he could stop himself, pressing against the back of Drift’s intake.

 

Instead of pushing him back, or choking, or any number of the standard responses Ratchet expected, Drift relaxed into the movement, intake opening up to allow his spike to slide in just that little bit further. His pelvic plating bumped against Drift’s nasal ridge, and the head of his spike lodged firmly in the speedster’s intake, and suddenly, Ratchet had no confidence in the stability of his legs.

 

“ _Frag,_ kid.” He gasped, bending over at the waist and gripping at Drift’s shoulders with both servos to help keep himself upright. Drift went to work with a single minded focus, suckling and teasing sensitive charge nodes with his glossa, flexing his intake around the head of his spike, driving Ratchet to the edge far quicker than the ambulance had planned.

 

Soon enough, the plates of his spike were flaring out, filling what little space remained in the nomad’s mouth, his hips moving of their own accord, pressing in as far as possible when overload hit him and releasing his charge into the other mech’s intake.

 

He pulled out with a wet pop, and took a moment to admire the way Drift knelt there, optics shuttered, mouth still open and glossa out, with his charge dancing around in the pooled oral solvents, lighting up the inside of his mouth with little blue arcs of electricity. Then he dropped to his knees, and pressed a kiss to that open mouth, stirring the charge back up with his glossa and feeling it tingle and crackle between them.

 

Drift’s servos wandered up and down his frame, insistent in their exploration as they found each and every single transformation seam, teasing deft fingers into the slightest gaps to search for the sensors beneath. Ratchet’s charge was climbing again already, a combination of the excess still in his system, and the fact that he had this absolutely gorgeous mech mouthing at his audial and neck, seemingly unable to keep his servos off of him.

 

Mind made up, and charge running high, Ratchet had no hesitation, no problem what so ever, with pushing him back until he collapsed into the nest. He crawled between those shapely thighs, mouthing up sensitive plating from ankle to hip, and dipping his glossa into the gaping space provided when Drift let his legs splay open further to make room for him between them.

 

He heard the smooth slide of a panel retracting, but focused his attention wholly on the wires and sensors beneath his glossa, hiding his smirk against heated plating when Drift whined and started to squirm beneath him. Servos found his helm, trying to guide him away from the crease of his thigh and over to his bared interface array, but Ratchet wouldn’t budge.

 

“P- _please!”_ Drift gasped, hips rising up off the bedding, spike rubbing past his chevron and sending a shudder up his spinal strut.

 

He pinned his hips down with both servos, lifting his helm to study the mech beneath him. Already his vents were wide open, fans a high pitched whir of background noise. Pale faceplates were flushed, optics pleading and going glassy as his servos fisted in the bedding under his helm.

 

“Pit, kid, you that revved up already?” Ratchet was amazed. The other mech had seemingly gone from zero to redline in no time flat, and if that didn’t do wonders to a mech’s self-esteem, he didn’t know what could.

 

“Want…want mate. _Please?_ ” Drift bit out, twisting in Ratchet’s servos, hooking his legs around his back and trying to pull him up his frame.

 

“But you have me?” Ratchet laughed, locking his joints and enjoying the way Drift struggled beneath him.

 

“Want _mate!_ ” Drift repeated, voice edging steadily towards a snarl as Ratchet proved immovable.

 

“O~oh…why didn’t you just say so?” He dipped his helm down, glossa snaking out to taste the lubricants dripping steadily from the clenching valve, swirling the very tip up into the tight channel. Drift shouted, calipers cycling down around the intruder, trying desperately to guide it further in, up towards the sensitive nodes in the back. Drift’s legs twitched, a pede connecting with his side and sliding off. Ratchet grabbed the offending appendage and pushed it up towards Drift’s chest, rising up on his knees and hooking the lean leg over his shoulder, nipping at the ridge where red armor met black thigh plating. The new position lifted Drift’s hips up off the ground, back bowing in a graceful arc, stabilizing pede pressed against the floor.

 

He whined, pulled at Ratchet with the leg draped over his shoulder. He continued to tease and nip and suckle on the heated metal of his thigh, reaching up with the servo not holding onto his leg and running his fingers through the slick folds of his valve to tease at the glowing nub just below his spike. Drift’s engine gave a sharp rev, and idled high when two fingers pressed into his tight valve.

 

Leaving a trail of little bite marks up his thigh, Ratchet latched onto his anterior node, flicking his glossa across the little bundle of sensors while he sank his fingers in to the last knuckle and turned on the heating coils in the pads of his fingers. Drift dug his stabilizing pede into the nest, pressing his hips up against Ratchet’s mouth and trapping his servo between their frames as he twitched and shuddered through a sudden, unexpected overload.

 

Lubricant dripped down Ratchet’s arm and off his elbow to puddle on his thigh, and it went all but unnoticed as he committed to memory the image of the beautiful speedster, gasping and shaking, still clenching spasmodically around his fingers and staring up at him with wide, glassy optics. Servos flexed and clenched in the bedding over his helm, raised arms framing his flushed face. Ratchet figured he could get used to the sight of this mech absolutely undone by his touches, and lowered him to the ground carefully before leaning up the blazing hot frame to capture that inviting mouth in a kiss.

 

Their glossas tangled, servos clutching at plating, frames pressed together from shoulder to hip. Drift bucked beneath him, rubbing their spikes together against their abdominal plating.

 

Breaking the kiss with a gasp and a whine of fans running at their highest setting, Ratchet raised himself up on his servos to admire the other mech for a moment. Drift didn’t allow him long before raising one leg up to wrap around his waist, tilting his array to slide Ratchet’s spike between slick, plush valve lips. The head caught on the ring of tiny, grasping platelets with every movement, and they both groaned every time it popped free again.

 

Drift shot him a coy little smirk, chewing on his lip and canting his hips up a bit further so his spike pressed inside the tight ring on the next slide. Suddenly, Ratchet’s focus was centered on keeping himself up on his servos, arms shaking as his spike slid inside that tight, wet channel, calipers squeezing down around his spike in a complex rhythm that he had trouble believe the speedster was consciously controlling.

 

Getting his knees under him, he widened his stance till Drift’s thighs were splayed wide around him. Once he was sure of his stability, he risked lifting one servo to grip the other mech’s ridiculously tiny waist, and thrust in to the hilt. The silken heat of the valve lining parted around his spike, revealing the tell tale texture of hidden sensor nodes, and he rocked his hips in little circles to stimulate the oft highly sensitive bundles. Drift proved to be no different in that regard, judging by the way he fell apart beneath him.

 

Suddenly, the coy little smiles and confidence were gone, abandoned for writhing and moaning that served to ramp his charge higher. Sitting back on his heels now, with the nomad’s legs draped over his lap, he reached down with the servo not admiring the small span of his waist (and by _Primus in the pit_ , his servo wrapped around the side of his waist, thumb resting above his spike and fingers nearly tracing his spinal strut…he could all but encircle Drift’s waist with both servos, and he hadn’t know how hot that could make him till he had the evidence in front of him, twisting and turning and moaning in his grasp). Wiggling his fingers into the small space between their arrays, he ignored the glowing spike in favor of firm touches to Drift’s anterior node.

 

Drift shouted, kicking out on either side of Ratchet with both pedes, as an overload crested over him once more, and if Ratchet had thought the clench of his calipers was nice around his fingers, it was nothing compared to the tight flexing of the rings around his spike. He pulled back till just the flared head was being squeezed inside the tight channel, gasping for air and willing his charge down. He wasn’t ready for this to end just yet, and he knew his reserves were finally starting to deplete. After this one, he’d probably be ready for recharge.

 

Drift was rocking his hips, lazy little circles that drew his spike in a bit. Ratchet admired the image for a few kliks, watching as Drift worked himself over his spike, and Ratchet was shocked to see he was getting charged up again already. His stamina floored him. In all his time at the academy, all the mech’s he’d ‘faced and been ‘faced by, and he’d _never_ seen a bot so into him, so ready to go again and again and again.

 

Pulling out completely, ignoring the frustrated whine, he shifted back far enough to guide Drift over onto his stomach, lifting his hips in the air and waiting till he got his knees under him. He rose up on his servos, peering over his shoulder at Ratchet and licking his lips, tilting his hips back and showing off his valve, glossy with lubricants, the white lips puffy and flushed pink with excess energon. Ratchet could appreciate the sight that made, but his optics were caught on the perfectly rounded aft instead, and he was more than happy to take a double servoful. Cupping rounded metal in both servos, he squeezed, and let his thumbs trace in towards that dripping valve. Dipping inside and pulling lightly, he was able to stretch the external ring open far enough to get a glimpse of the pulsing red biolights inside.

 

“Ra~atchet!” Drift whined, valve trying to clench down around his thumbs, inner rings on display for the medic to admire. He reluctantly withdrew both digits, and quickly replaced them with his spike.

 

Pressing in tightly, shifting his grip away from that perfect aft so he could grab his hips, he set up a long, slow, steady pace. Withdraw, pause, slide back in, pause, repeat. Drift whimpered and whined, and twitched beneath him, trying to urge him to move faster, but Ratchet was having none of it. He was going to draw this out for as long as he could, and enjoy it. Bringing one servo back to Drift’s aft, he caressed the warm metal for a moment, and then gave it a light slap on the next withdraw.

 

Drift yelped, valve clenching down tightly as Ratchet slid back in, and he smoothed away the little sting, petting the twitching metal softly.

 

“You okay?” He asked, thumb tapping against plating as he continued to thrust. Drift nodded, pressing his face down into the nest and moaning shamelessly. “Even with this?” He continued, punctuating the question with another, slightly heavier, smack of his palm across Drift’s aft. The white helm buried in furs nodded frantically, mouth open, gasping for air.

 

Satisfied he wasn’t confusing the other mech, he was more than happy to pepper his new mate’s backside with little stinging slaps at random, switching servos to pay equal attention to the other side.

 

Soon enough, servos warm and tingling from repeated contact, pleasure a tight knot in the pit of his tanks, he could feel his overload creeping up. He leaned forward, draping himself over Drift’s slumped frame and mouthing at his neck cables as he picked up the pace. Sliding his arms up under his chest and wrapping his servos around his collar fairings, he pulled him back tight against his frame as his thrusts grew faster, harder, more erratic.

 

Drift was limp in his hold, face pressed firmly into the bedding, servos reaching back to grip at Ratchet’s thighs as he was moved up the nest from the force of his thrusts. His mouth was opened on one long, unending moan, optics offlined and fingers twitching against his legs.

 

His spike plating flared, the mesh beneath expanding as his charge crested, and he had just enough spare processor threads left to untangle one servo from it’s tight grip on Drift’s collar to reach down and pump the other mech’s neglected spike.

 

He went over just before Drift, releasing his charge into the swollen sensors of Drift’s valve and shuddering through his overload. The rush of excess charge against his sensor net, coupled with the tight grip of Ratchet’s servo around his spike drug Drift over after him, and they collapsed together in the nest, gasping and panting as they both twitched through the last little shocks of overload.

 

It took far too long for him to find the strength to roll over, pulling out of Drift with an obscene squelch of lubricants and flopping onto his back. He was quick to wrap an arm around the other mech when he snuggled up against his side, engine purring contentedly in his chassis as he buried his face in Ratchet’s shoulder.

 

They lay together like that for a long time in silence, and Ratchet was halfway to recharge when Drift spoke up.

 

“Ratchet?”

 

“Yea, kid?” Ratchet refused to move, frame a pleasant puddle of melted wiring and liquid struts.

 

“Why call ‘kid’?” Drift’s face popped up in his line of sight, the speedster leaning up on his elbows against Ratchet’s windshield and staring down at him questioningly.

 

“How old are you?” Ratchet pinged him a request for his build date, and was floored when the number he received was nearly identical to his own, off by only a hundredth of a digit. For all intents and purposes, they were the same age. “Slag, kid..I mean…Drift…I just, I assumed you were a lot younger than me!”

 

Drift shook his helm, grinning at him with that flash of fang again that would have made him weak in the joints if he wasn’t already completely liquified. He tapped at his helm, then at Ratchet’s.

 

“Same up here. _Sound_ young, maybe? Rung say get better with practice, bad speak city-tongue now, yea?”

 

It made sense, he supposed. The stilted speech patterns _did_ make Drift sound _so_ much younger than he was, and everything was said so hesitantly, so much of it framed as a question instead of a statement, like a youngling still learning the ways of the world. Ratchet was no old mech, by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, many at the hospital had liked to remind him of how young he really was, fresh out of school and still wet behind the audials in their optics. To know that Drift was his own age, and not some newly sparked mech, was such a relief, and Ratchet could feel the weight of worry falling from his shoulders, the cloak of concern that had made him feel ten times his age in comparison to the other mech suddenly gone, leaving him feeling lighter by far.

 

He rolled over on his side, twisting so he was snugged up against Drift’s back, and wrapped his arms around the other mech’s waist, nipping at an audial and then pressing a kiss to his cheek. In the morning, he could ask who this ‘Rung’ character was, that apparently had a much better grasp of Neo-Cybex. For the time being, he was exhausted, and content to fall into recharge with the thrum of a racing engine against his chest plates.


	3. Chapter 3

It had started out simply enough. Ratchet had caught Drift inserting an old funnel into his oil reservoir, and after yanking it out of his servos and threatening to beat him with it, and then spending a good ten minutes ranting about sterile conditions and “For pit’s sake if you’re not going to do this properly, in a sterile medbay, the least you could do is _wash_ the slagging thing. Do you _want_ sand in your reservoir?” he had tossed the funnel into a corner to be forgotten. One servo on his new mate’s chest was enough to have the confused mech leaning back, dropping down heavily on the storage chest as soon as the backs of his legs touched it.

 

Ratchet ignored his inquisitive chirp, pulling supplies from his subspaced med-kit and laying them out on a sheet of plastic he’d spread by Drift’s hip on the chest.

 

His supplies were woefully lacking, and he wished, not for the first or last time, that they were in his well stocked clinic. He regretted how often he’d complained about the lack of supplies, the lack of funding, the lack of _help_ at the little out of the way, run down clinic, but compared to his situation now? That little dead-end clinic looked like the Deltaran Medical Facility itself. He made a mental note to speak with whoever it was that was in charge of trading, or foraging, or stealing, or however the frag they got their supplies, and see what needed to be done to get more oil, filters, coolant, and other basic necessities.

 

A sharp tap of his servo on Drift’s leg had the mech spreading his thighs wide, letting Ratchet slide up between them to get as close as possible. A quick search in the gap at his left hip joint revealed the bumpy surface of his oil cap, and he glared up at the speedster from his position while he engaged the tools in his servo to get hold of the cap and unscrew it.

 

“You were just going to top off?” Drift quirked an optical ridge, and shrugged. Setting the cap to the side and blocking the flow of the oil with his palm in one well practiced motion, he followed the line of the reservoir up to the ridge of the filter with his free servo. Pulling it free, his fingers came in contact with the gummy surface of an absolutely worn filter, and he dropped it into the pan and glared again. “How _old_ is this filter, Drift?”

 

Drift shrugged again, and reached down to touch Ratchet’s wrist. He slapped the wandering servo away, nudging his oil pan into place with his knee, and pinching off the flow of oil a few inches up from the drain in a move that came from years upon years of repeated performance. On second though, he reached down with his free servo and picked the filter back up from where it had clattered into the pan, and held it up for inspection. It was absolutely _caked_ with old, dirty oil, and he all but shoved it into Drift’s face to make his point.

 

“This? This right here needs to be replaced. _Regularly_. Drift, you could have had a serious problem if you kept this in for much longer!” Drift plucked the filter from his fingers to look it over, turning it in his servos and running his fingers along the inside. He made a face at the filth that clung to his digits when he pulled them back. Content with the disgust on his face for the time being, Ratchet carefully coaxed the head of his oil channel out of his hip joint, stretching the densely woven mesh of the flexible tubing collapsed just inside the solid ring of the filter cradle and aiming it at the oil pan.

 

Moving his servo, he watched as the sludgy oil streamed into the pan, and Drift let out a startled moan above him.

 

“Feels good, huh? Your tank has to have been cramping from carrying all this around, and your engine’s gonna thank you later.” He petted Drift’s other thigh with his free servo, and stroked at the tubing to help coax out some slow moving blockages. Drift moaned again, and his fans kicked on. Startled, Ratchet looked up at him, and couldn’t decide whether to be amused, flattered, or exhausted. The kid (because slaggit, the nickname stuck, and now that he knew Drift wasn’t _really_ a kid, and he didn’t feel like a million year old lecher, he liked calling him that, even if only to see him get flustered or irritated) had leaned back on his servos, staring down his chest plate at Ratchet, face and finials flushed, mouth opened wide to take in extra air.

 

“…Drift?” He rolled his optics when all he got in response was another moan, and a little hip thrust. Droplets of oil splattered over Ratchet’s leg and he growled up at him. “Keep still, kid, or I’ll tie you down.” The sharp rev of a high performance engine was his response, and heat started building under his plating. “Kid, you gotta slow it down, you’ll wreck your engine if you don’t knock it off.” He shook the last little bits of oil from the tubing and pressed a small brush attachment up into the channel to check for any leftover gunk.

 

Drift whined, but kept his hips still, and choked off the throttle till his engine rumbled as a low purr in his chest instead of a high revving whine. But Ratchet could feel the tension in his limbs, the barely there restraint that baffled him. He acted like Ratchet was irresistible, and while he was absolutely flattered, and could barely believe his luck at getting stuck with such an amazing mech (both in _and_ out of the berth), it confused him to no end. He was no catch, he was stocky, and plain, and grumpy as the pit, and yea, he was the ‘Party Ambulance’, but that didn’t mean much in comparison to the natural beauty of the speedster he was kneeling in front of. Yet here he was, doing something as simple (and unsexy) as cleaning out Drift’s oil channel, and the speedster was already redlining, and that was only partially due to the fact that his oil had been drained.

 

He was as careful as could be, trusting Drift to keep still as he slowly rotated the brush inside the tubing. A quick glance up showed Drift was chewing on his lip, and staring up at the ceiling of the tent while he focused on his venting.

 

“I’m not hurting you, am I, kid?” Ratchet asked gruffly, unwilling to assume. There could very well be an infection or something equally unpleasant, after going so long without an oil change, that _could_ be causing him pain after all.

 

Drift shook his helm, still not looking down at him.

 

Twisting the brush one last time, he stroke the thin mesh tubing as he pulled free, soothing away any sting, and Drift practically vibrated with pent up energy. His panel slid aside, a blast of heat hitting Ratchet in the face as his valve and spike covers were revealed. The secondary panelling over his valve slid aside without preamble, baring the glistening folds of his valve lips to view. Ratchet swallowed audibly, forcing his optics away from the tantalizing sight to focus on his work.

 

How this kid could make a slagging _oil change_ into something straight out of a porn vid was unimaginable. He slapped one shivering thigh, the _clang_ echoing loudly in his audials as Drift jumped.

 

“Put it away, Drift. You’re gonna blow a header if you aren’t careful.” He tucked the little collapsable tubing away as he spoke, and reset the cap and bolt. It was the work of a few minutes to ease a clean funnel into his filter housing and fill him up with the high performance oil he’d had sitting out. Drift’s opinion on a full oil change was apparent, heat cooling in favor of dismay as Ratchet cracked the seal on bottle after bottle. Probably, the little glitch hoarded the oil, and didn’t want to change it all out and get rid of his supply all at once.

 

Too bad for him Ratchet had the final say.

 

Once he was topped off to Ratchet’s satisfaction, and the last, half full, bottle was resealed, Ratchet found a standard racer’s filter in his kit, the only one he had unfortunately, and rimmed the seal with oil before pressing it in tightly. The housing stretched slowly around the rim of the filter, and all that heat was back in Drift’s frame and field as he twitched and writhed and moaned his way through reseating the filter with a pop.

 

Ratchet was wiping his servos off with a rag he kept in subspace for just that purpose when Drift nudged him with a pede.

 

“Yea?” He looked up, an exasperated smile curling his mouth at Drift’s needy look.

 

“Ratch done?” His voice had gotten all low and gravelly, and it shot straight to Ratchet’s interface.

 

“Yea, kid, I’m done. You’re good to go for another pit forsaken amount of time before I have to pin you down and do this all over ag- _ack!_ ” Drift didn’t wait for him to finish, launching himself off the chest and taking them both to the ground.

 

He draped himself over Ratchet’s frame, thighs spread over his hips, rocking his still exposed array down against Ratchet’s rapidly heating panel. His mouth was right next to his audial, moaning and gasping and exventing hot air over his helm. Servos groped at his chest, scraping across the glass and finding the edges of armor to stroke and tease.

 

Letting his panel retract, he threw his helm back and groaned as his spike pressurized right up into the welcoming heat of Drift’s valve. The mech was a genius when it came to revving Ratchet up, he’d have no problem admitting it, and it wasn’t the first time Drift had managed to pull Ratchet from housing to valve without missing a beat.

 

Drift was already sitting up and raising himself off his spike, servos flat against his chest for balance as he dropped back down, setting a brutal pace that promised a quick finish. He brought his servos up to wrap around Drift’s waist, the sight of his thumbs touching in the middle tightening the coil of pleasure in the pit of his tank as he helped lift and lower his mate, bucking up into the tight clench of his valve and biting his lip to keep from letting the whole tribe know what they were up to in the middle of the day.

 

Drift had no such qualms, moans and gasps and pleas and shouts of Ratchet’s name, Primus, _oh please more harder faster **please**_ **!’** falling from his vocalizer without restraint.

 

Determined to draw this out for more than just a few brief kliks, he pulled the speedster down flush with his pelvic span, pinning him in place and grinding up into his valve with tight little circles, notching back on the stimulation to his internal sensors, but lighting up his anterior node instead. Drift shouted, slumping forward to lay across Ratchet’s frame again, hips twitching and dancing in Ratchet’s looser hold.

 

Confident that Drift wasn’t going anywhere, he let go with one servo, reaching around behind Drift’s thigh and tracing at the stretched rim of his valve with one fingertip. The litany of moans and praise increased in volume, and Drift arched his back, trying to entice him further in.

 

Never one to waste an invitation, he slowly, carefully worked his finger in next to his spike, and pressed down tight on a swollen, static filled node. Drift rose up on his elbows, optics flaring white while his valve spasmed and cycled through an overload, spike discharging between their frames in a sympathetic secondary reaction.

 

The force of his overload, and the shock at the sudden onslaught, was enough to drag Ratchet over the edge behind him. He pulled his servo free, grabbing Drift’s hip again and pulling him down tightly against his frame, the swollen, sensitized charge node at the head of his spike seating in the receptive indent at the top of his valve, locking them together and starting a loop of feedback that built in strength the longer it went.

 

Finally, Drift’s receptor shut down, still crackling with the charge it had stored, and he lay strutless across Ratchet, fans wobbling on high and armor cooling slowly.

 

With a groan that had little to do with pleasure, and a lot to do with his lack of solid joints at this point, Ratchet rolled them over so Drift lay splay legged in the furs. His spike had receded into it’s housing, but his valve cover still lay recessed in it’s channel, giving Ratchet a good look at his valve, lips puffed up and shiny with lubricant, charge snapping and crackling over the surface. His biolights pulsed weakly, anterior node lit up bright red like a beacon.

 

Patting blindly for a clean rag, Ratchet came up empty servoed, realizing belatedly that he was down to his last one, the oily thing sitting by the chest where he’d dropped it when he’d been tackled to the ground. His own spike had already receded, and it would be easy enough to clean it up later, with some cleanser and a scrap of cloth. Drift could barter for some new cloths with the extra skins they had lying in the corner at some point, and until then, it wouldn’t hurt him any. His spike was sealed, with no interior access available. Unlike Drift’s valve.

 

Leaning down, he swiped his glossa through the mess of lubricants, for a lack of a better way to clean him up. Drift groaned, legs twitching on either side of his helm, but he said nothing as Ratchet got to work carefully sucking one swollen lip and then the other into his mouth, cleaning them with light, careful strokes of his glossa. It wasn’t designed to rev him back up, and despite the weak snarl of the nomad’s engine, it seemed Drift was content to let Ratchet do his thing without input.

 

Their combined charge tickled his lips and glossa, setting the thin, flexible plating to tingle as he worked, sliding his glossa between valve lips now shiny with oral solvents instead of lubricants, and a weak secondary charge was building in his valve. Taking pity on him, he pressed in deeper, rubbing his nasal ridge against the swollen exterior nub.

 

Glancing up from under his chevron, he made sure to save multiple stills of his mate’s face, twisted up in pleasure, optics shuttered and mouth open, with his servos twisted together over his chest plate. Reaching up with one servo, he untangled the tense digits, and linked their servos together palm to palm. Drift didn’t know chirolinguistics, but the contact was meaningful none the less, and he squeezed Ratchet’s servo tight as he rocked down against his mouth.

 

::C’mon kid, let me see you overload one more time.:: He sent over short-range comms, tapping at a cluster of sensors along the back wall of his valve and pressing his nasal ridge up tight against his node. ::You’re so damn beautiful when you let go like this. All wrung out and mindless to anything but me and what I’m doing to you. I love the way you look when you come undone.:: It was all the encouragement Drift needed, a weak overload rippling his calipers down around Ratchet’s glossa, flooding his mouth with more lubricant that he was happy to drink down like fine high-grade.

 

Drift sank into the furs, half offline with a blissed out expression on his face as he tugged Ratchet up his frame with the servo still clenched tight in his. Careful to roll to the side, so as to not crush Drift under his significant mass, he rested his helm on Drift’s shoulder, and massaged his palm with both servos, pressing kisses to each finger tip and then to the cup of the palm while Drift smiled dreamily at him.

 

They were both halfway to recharge when Ratchet spoke up, speaking almost directly into the servo he still held to his mouth.

 

“Didn’t figure you’d find an oil change erotic, kid.”

 

He rolled dimly lit optics at the ‘kid’ comment, and pulled him closer with the arm under his neck.

 

“Not oil change. _Ratchet._ Love mate. Love all of mate. Servos feel nice on all parts, even oil pan. And you _care_ , care to make me health again, spend time doing dirty chores when could be doing other stuff.” Ratchet leaned up onto his elbow, looking down at Drift and quirking an optical ridge.

 

“Kid, it’s _not_ a waste of time to do an oil change every now and then. I won’t have my mate running around with sludged up pistons for pit’s sake.” Drift just snickered, lifting his helm up far enough to kiss his windshield.

 

“Ratchet _good mate_. And sexy. Always sexy. Always revved up for you, Ratch. Always will be.” Fingers squeezed the servo resting on Drift’s abdomen, punctuating the promise.

 

“Pit, kid…gonna give me an ego…”

 

“Deserved. Ratchet _slagging hot_. Still think lucky agreed to be mate. Waiting to wake up, find all a dream.”

 

His spark swelled in his chest, and he leaned down to press a kiss to that smiling mouth.

 

“Not a dream, kid,” He grumbled, kissing him again, “ _You’re_ the dream, or the cruel joke, or the universe dangling a treat in front of my face just before they snatch it away again. I’m a greedy mech, and I won’t share you with anybody, so long as you wanna stay with me.”

 

“Mates. Mates mean life. All time.” Drift said directly into the kiss.

 

“One of us is gonna have to learn to speak the other’s language better…but even as stilted as that was, that was…perfect…” Drift laughed, and Ratchet couldn’t help but join in, and they were content to lay in the afternoon warmth, cuddled up together, swapping soft, tender kisses for as long as they could remain uninterrupted.

 

If it led to an extra round or two of interfacing, who was Ratchet to argue?


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If I'd actually PLANNED anything at all, this would have been chapter one... ::hangs head:: Oh well, better late then never, I suppose. Enjoy Drift and Ratchet's first meeting. Wherein Ratchet's pissed, and Drift seems to think Primus is smiling down on him. Or laughing. One of the two. Menial, Harutemu, consider this an apology for all the mean stuff I've either put you through (Harutemu) or you haven't seen yet cause you're still waiting for the good times to come (Menial) XD
> 
> Adhesivesandscrap's live writes are useful, on top of getting fun, cause I feel like I need to accomplish something apparently XD

The caravan came into view, and Drift went over the checklist Rung had given him in his processor one last time, flexing his fingers on the hilts of his swords. The tiny little city mech turned nomad had made Drift swear he’d be careful, and that he’d minimize casualties.

 

After he’d made Rung explain what that meant, he’d been on his way with the small contingency of warriors, leaving Rung, Strika, and Blitzwing to make their way off towards the Vosian tribe. Rung had been making the rounds lately of the local tribes, teaching those willing to learn the city-mech language. Seeing as this was the first time in a long time that the two tribes were coming into contact with one another, Megatron was taking no chances with their translator, insisting the heavy hitter go with him, and for Strika to keep the triple changer from doing anything that might set off the famously short tempered leader.

 

Focusing back on the task at hand, he waited till the caravan passed by beneath the dune they were stretched out on, then led the charge down into their midst.

 

Everything quickly devolved into noise and chaos, as the caravan split apart into a mass of screaming mechs. They quickly picked out the few warriors of the group, and Drift realized they brought more warriors than was needed when he was left facing civilians. One charged him with no weapon in sight, and he batted him aside, forcibly reminding himself once more of Rung’s demand of no avoidable casualties. He supposed avoidable meant civilians with poorly made fists and rank terror in their fields.

 

The civilian crumpled, optics wide, and scrambled back, tucking up against the side of one of the transports. Drift stepped past him with a snort of air through his vents. He wouldn’t be a threat, so he kept only a bare minimum of attention on him as he put his back to him and started rummaging through the contents of the transport.

 

Almost immediately, he came across another civilian, cowering between crates, and hauled him out by bit of shoulder kibble, tossing him nearly on top of the first. Finding the crates labeled with the universal sign of a medic, he started subspacing what he could, dragging out what he couldn’t once it filled up, for the others to carry.

 

_Clank!_

 

He whirled, one servo to his helm, glaring in the direction he assumed the person who threw whatever it was that had hit him in the back of the helm was.

 

And froze.

 

A sturdy red and white mech stood between Drift and the cowering civilians, glaring daggers at him. The glare seemed to be his only available weapon, and Drift only just hid the genuine smile trying to escape, keeping his optics locked on the ridiculously attractive city mech as he leaned down to pick up a packet of coolant he’d dropped when he’d been struck.

 

As he stood, another object struck him directly between the optics, causing them to fritz and reset. When the static cleared, he glared down at the worn wrench lying in the sand. So he had been wrong about the lack of weapons. Gathering it in one servo, he stalked forward, coming nose to nose with the angry civilian and smirking.

 

The smirk hid the strange combination of desire and confusion he felt when he realized the mech wasn’t going to back down. Instead, he snapped at Drift, and while he only caught about one in every five or so words, his voice wormed its way into his spark in a way that Tarn’s never had. Firm, rough, with a distinct lack of the fear he should have been feeling at the moment, the mech pushed him back with firm servos on his chest plate, and he was quick to gather them both up in one of his.

 

The mech’s handsome face twisted up in a snarl, and he jerked, trying and failing to pull away as Drift pulled his arms up over and behind his helm so his elbows were bent, and his balled up fists brushed the back of his neck. Drift took a quick moment to admire the way that pushed his chest forward, the glass of his windshield reflecting Drift’s dirty, paint covered face back at himself.

 

Pain bloomed across Drift’s tac-net when the mech, denied the use of his servos, crushed his pede down on top of Drift’s. The thin metal plating crumpled, sensors firing all at once in a haze of red and white starbursts across his optics, and he failed to bite back the yelp, pulling away and staring in wonder and hurt at the mech.

 

 _I want him_. It was a single line of thought, but it consumed his processor as the mech pulled another wrench out of subspace, holding it between them like a sword and giving a challenging rev of his sturdy engine. He lifted his balled servos and adopted a ready stance, lifting up onto the balls of his pedes despite the wash of pain at the pressure on his damaged pede.

 

The mech, a medic if he judged the pristine paint of a red cross on his shoulder, gripped his makeshift weapon tighter and widened his stance, snapping at the civilians behind him. They scrambled away, around the other side of the caravan, and the mech spared a glance out of the corner of his optics to watch them go.

 

Drift made his move while the medic was distracted.

 

Lunging forward, he tackled the mech to the sand, landing on top of him and pinning his servos over his helm. The mech shouted, and Drift was happy to feel that despite the flood of shock in his field, there was still no fear, even in the face of what the mech could only assume would be his impending death. Setting in on top of the warm frame between his thighs, he leaned down and locked optics with the other once more, this time allowing the smirk to soften into a smile, reaching out with his field to soothe the tangled mass of _anger/defiance/confusion_ the medic was projecting.

 

That only seemed to (understandably) make the mech angrier, and Drift pulled back just in time to avoid getting his nasal ridge crushed when he attempted to headbutt him.

 

“Drift! Stop making bedroom optics at him and let’s go!” He wasn’t sure which of his fellow tribesmechs was shouting at him, focused as he was on the mech beneath him, but he rose almost on autopilot, dragging the struggling medic to his knees and quickly wrapping a loop of cabling kept in his subspace for snare traps around his wrists. This only served to escalate the mech’s struggles, and Drift ran a soothing servo down the side of the red helm, trying and failing to quiet him. The medic shouted and snarled, twisting his wrists out of Drift’s loose grip and surging to his pedes, catching him unawares and succeeding in his earlier failed attempt to break his nasal ridge, sending him sprawling in the sand.

 

Amidst the laughs of his fellow warriors, he rolled to his stomach and yanked the medic’s pedes out from under him as he tried to run by. Climbing to his pedes, ignoring the stream of energon running down his face to drip off his chin, he pulled the medic up to his pedes and then slung him over his shoulder.

 

Sparing a glance over his free shoulder as he fell into step with the others, he saw the civilians still cowering like turborats underneath and behind the transports, watching as they left, but doing nothing to save the medic being carted off before their very optics. As they crested the dune, he saw a single mech crawl slowly towards the (mostly) unconscious Knights piled together, but still, no saviors for the medic.

 

Fine by him. He didn’t plan on handing the medic back to them, after all. Primus had led him to this mech today, and he wasn’t going to refuse a gift from the god, even if it would take work to win the mech over.

 

A pede connected with his abdomen, and he stumbled before regaining his footing.

 

A _lot_ of work.

 

He was up for the challenge.


End file.
